


the last week of july

by honeybakedgrace



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Hair-pulling, M/M, domestic banter as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25186456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybakedgrace/pseuds/honeybakedgrace
Summary: If you are Sakusa Kiyoomi, you are the fool who moved in with a man who would—in six months' time—break your aircon during the last week of July.If you are Miya Atsumu, you are the fool who moved in with a man knowing that eventually you’d break something of his, and you are honestly just glad it wasn’t him.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 523





	the last week of july

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astroeulogy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroeulogy/gifts).



> Alt summary for this fic: My brain is the clown car and everything Bree has ever said to me is the clowns.
> 
> This fic is gifted to Bree, who you should all go and wish a very happy birthday and who I love very dearly. What can I say except: she's just the absolute best and I'm happy to have her around :p
> 
> And special thanks to Quip for beta reading this and getting it breeday worthy <3

In Osaka, the last week of July hits at the apex of two months of brutal summer. Summer in their household begins when the four-week storm most calendars call "June" parts to allow the city a few days of cool, dewy warmth. In the coming weeks, any remnant of the rainy season is evaporated by the rising temperatures. 

If you are Sakusa Kiyoomi, you are the fool who moved in with a man who would — in six months' time — break your aircon during the last week of July. 

If you are Miya Atsumu, you are the fool who moved in with a man knowing that eventually you’d break something of his, and you are honestly just glad it wasn’t him. 

Heat bleeds in from the windows, which are set all the way open to let warm afternoon air circulate through their stifled apartment. Omi drags the flat side of his finger along his roots, slicking back loose strands that have stuck to his temples and slipped free of the fabric pushing his overgrown mane of stiff curls away from his face. 

He sits on the backrest of the couch, bare feet tucked underneath Atsumu’s sweat-dampened thighs. Atsumu sinks into his lap a little further, resting his cheek on Omi’s pink inner thigh and rubbing slow circles into a small mole on the leg he has his arm hooked around. He flips through channels with his free hand, waving the faulty remote in small, frustrated zigzags. 

This arrangement is one of the few ways touch-starved Omi can continue his daily quest of wrangling Atsumu into curling up on the couch for as many consecutive episodes of The Price is Right as is possible in one sitting, where at least his upper half is free from Atsumu’s added warmth. 

(Last November he’d broken ten episodes when Atsumu was sick with the flu and tiredly cozied up into his chest for the entire day. Had it not been for the nausea, Atsumu might have stayed there all night long.) 

One rolled t-shirt sleeve comes loose and falls down over Omi’s shoulder, and he struggles to tug it back up while fishing blindly between his legs to swipe the remote. 

"'M not watchin’ that stupid show today! Not again!” Atsumu protests, clutching the remote to his chest with both hands. 

Omi slips one hand under Atsumu’s ribs and presses against the ticklish spot threateningly. 

"Give me the remote.”

"'M not afraid of— _HMNG!_ —alright, fine! It’s yours.” Atsumu surrenders the remote, holding it above his head.

Omi clicks onto the _correct_ channel, satisfiedly tucking Atsumu’s head under his chin and burrowing his jaw between layers of semi grown-out blonde hair. 

_He’s almost makes watching this boring fucking show worth it when he gets like this. Almost…_

Atsumu lays his palms flat on Omi’s legs, and Omi silently clasps their hands together. He lets Atsumu drag his hands down towards his stomach, shoulders rolling forward. 

"Tsumu.” Omi grumbles, and Atsumu can feel him frowning. "What are you doing?” 

"Hm? Oh nothin’,” Atsumu lies. It's a bit too innocent to be believable, but Omi doesn’t press. 

He crosses their arms over his chest and brushes their knuckles over his lap. When Omi still doesn’t pull away he lifts his hips into the contact and sighs lightly—but it’s not nearly enough. He grinds up once, brushing against Omi’s wrist.

"Stop that,” Omi hisses. "The show is on.” 

"Yeah, I know.”

_Why d’ya think 'm doin’ this?_

Atsumu unclasps their hands and gets up, turning to kneel on the couch, facing Omi. He loops both arms over Omi’s legs and settles back on his calves, ignoring the pointed glare of betrayal. 

"Miya,” Omi warns, like that’s ever stopped him before. 

"What?”

"What do you want?” 

"Just want ya to touch me, ’s that too much to ask?” Omi keeps his hands folded in his lap, overlooking how Atsumu lightly presses the heel of his palm against his own shorts. 

"I was touching you, before you got up.”

"Not like that,” Atsumu complains. "If ya won’t touch me, then will ya let me touch you?” 

"Needy,” Omi muses. "You’re kind of pretty when you get like this,”—meaning of course that the wide-eyed, slack-mouthed look of wonder Atsumu gets on his face when Omi calls him pretty is—admittedly—quite pretty indeed. 

It takes a full ten seconds for Atsumu to process, a full ten seconds of absolute silence in which he holds his breath and doesn’t sneer at Omi’s delighted half-smirk. 

"Yer a demon.” 

Atsumu sits up on his knees and drags his fingers across Omi’s scalp, pushing the headband loose, allowing his grip to slide through the slick strands, and tugging Omi down into a kiss. 

"If we’re doing this—"

"Yeah, I know,” Atsumu mutters between breaths, grinding his torso forward into Omi’s lap. He breaks from the kiss and turns his attention to Omi’s hardening cock, now noticeably pushing against the pink fabric of his shorts.

Atsumu mouths over the soft material, leaning forward on his knees while Omi’s hips chase the warmth of his breath. He drags the flat of his tongue over the cotton and wraps both arms around Omi’s waist, digging his nails into the exposed skin of his lower back. 

"This isn’t going to get you out of watching my show.” 

"Mmm, whatever.” Atsumu hooks his fingers into the band of Omi’s shorts. "Least you can do is fuck me hard enough that I won’t hafta be conscious for it.”

…

Similar to a cat, Atsumu is most exposed when he’s belly up.

Omi loves to see him like this: arms splayed out to the side, fists dug into the mattress, and one leg hiked up on Omi’s muscular shoulder. His hips wriggle and jump and grind back into the sheets; he tosses his head from side to side and burrows into the crook of his elbow until Omi reaches up to push it aside. 

"C’mon,” Omi grumbles, stilling his two knuckle-deep fingers to swat Atsumu’s arm away. 

Now Atsumu does not beg, but if he did—

"Omi-kun,” he mumbles, rocking down on his fingers and burying his ruddy colored cheeks into the hot bend of his elbow. " _Omi-kun_.” Sweat curls down the backs of his thighs and pools into the sheets, and he wants nothing more than to melt into the mattress with it. 

"Omi,” he pants once more. 

"I want to see you.”

But Atsumu doesn’t want to be seen; he’d honestly rather die than be perceived right now. Atsumu would rather tumble head first down the five flights of stairs from their apartment than admit he wants Omi more than he’s ever wanted anything—which means something when you want everything. 

Nonetheless Omi needs it. There’s vulnerability in his askance, in admitting that he craves Atsumu’s attention in the way that he should crave breakfast after sleeping until noon or sleep after running ten miles.

So, Atsumu removes his arm, casting it limply aside to squint up at Omi hovering curiously above. 

Just as expected, he stares. Omi drags a thumb over his temple, mussing through tufts of platinum hair. He pulls fistfuls of it into the bed until Atsumu grimaces and then strokes over the tender scalp. He curls his fingers into Atsumu’s soft spot just to see his breath hitch and his hips cant up towards the ceiling, every mixed-up emotion blurred by his apparent embarrassment. Omi’s technique is not exactly indulgent; it’s purposeful. He only strokes against Atsumu’s prostate to see how visibly affected he is. 

"What?” Atsumu seethes, more desperate than angry. "What’re you lookin’ at?”

"You look like an upturned turtle.” 

"That’s not sexy.” 

"Then try harder.”

Atsumu pushes up on his elbows."Is this supposed to be hot? Or are you just being a shithead cuz ya wanna see me squirm?”

"You like it when I talk down to you. You told me that last week,” Omi says. Infuriatingly enough, it’s not a dig, Omi is really just _that_ blunt. 

"Baby, would it kill ya—"

"Yes.” Omi pushes his palm into Atsumu’s sternum, forcing him onto his back again.

He gently scissors the two fingers that haven’t left Atsumu for nearly ten minutes, tongue stuck between his teeth. 

_What the hell are ya thinkin’? What skin-crawling test d’ya have for me next, Omi-kun?_

As if in response, Omi presses a third finger against his rim, a bit demanding but still a question nonetheless. He glances up and grunts, "Well?” 

Atsumu breathes shallowly through his teeth, using every shivering muscle to avoid answering with his entire body when he grits out, "Yes.” 

Omi slips the third finger in—always more of a shock than the second or the first—and elicits a groan from between Atsumu’s teeth.

"You wanted this,” Omi reminds him, not that he needs to.

"Still do.” He mumbles. Omi doesn’t answer, but he does smile—small and soft and not smug in the least. 

Atsumu sucks in air loudly through his teeth as Omi curls his fingers, then pushes Atsumu’s leg off his shoulder and guides him up by the back of his neck into a kiss. It’s soft, but not timid. 

"Never known a shithead like you to have such a gentle touch.” 

"Don’t speak so soon, baby,” he warns, thrusting his fingers into the hilt and pressing, content to feel Atsumu’s moan fan over his pink cheeks.

"Bastard,” Atsumu huffs, nails scrabbling feebly over Omi’s slick back. Droplets of sweat trickle down his jaw and neck and chest. 

"You’re ready.” The hand behind his neck and the one between his legs leave as Omi reaches for the lone condom on the nightstand. Atsumu peeks an eye open in time to watch Omi drizzle lube into his palm and fist it loosely over his cock, letting his head fall back and eyes drift shut for a moment. 

"Don’t keep me waitin’, gorgeous.” 

He hums in acknowledgment, tossing the bottle aside and crawling back up between Atsumu’s spread thighs. His fingers slip under Atsumu’s knee as he props it on his shoulder, holding it in place with his cheek.

Omi glances down, lids heavy as he lines his up his cock. Even just resting there, his breath catches in his throat. Atsumu can feel the warmth, the weight.

The bedroom, cast in a filter of bronze afternoon light, is thick with heavy heat. It sinks Omi’s shoulders forward, slips Atsumu’s leg into the bend of his elbow as he falls forward onto his forearm.

He begins fucking Atsumu slow, gentle, and deep, spreading his legs open a little further with each slick thrust. Omi’s chest goes deep, ruddy red, rivulets of sweat winding down his temples and the bridge of his nose as he works into Atsumu.

Atsumu’s entire body aches with the effort, needing something more yet being entirely too full to accept it. He claws down Omi’s back, hands slipping over slick planes of muscle that shift and flex under his weak grasp. As Omi sinks into him, Atsumu wraps all of his tan limbs around Omi's center, hooking flexed feet around his small waist. He anchors his heels into Omi’s lower back and curls his thighs over jutting hip bones. 

Omi brings his free hand up to coil into his hair, roughly dragging his chin up and his head down into the bed. 

"Omi—" 

"Hush,” Omi mutters, sliding his hips forward with more punch, sweat falling from the tip of his nose and jaw into the ribbons of muscle over Atsumu’s torso. He tugs Atsumu’s head to the side and kisses below his jaw, cheek wet against Atsumu’s neck as he drags his lips down to mouth over his collarbone. 

Each time Omi’s hips meet his ass, Atsumu presses himself down, keeping a slightly offbeat rhythm that Omi fights to correct. 

"Shhh,” he mumbles. "Do you ever stop fussing?” 

"I don’t _fuss_ ,” Atsumu insists. "You fuss, I…” 

"Always think you know best?” Omi hits particularly deep, and Atsumu’s groan dissolves into a growl. 

Atsumu mutters, "Fine,” and stills, letting Omi punch into him at his own, blindingly good, pace. 

Atsumu’s head grumbles, _So what if he’s right?_ while a high pitched whine escapes from his throat. Omi isn’t saying a word, but Atsumu can hear it in his stupid sexy low voice without an ounce of enthusiasm: 

_Better? Obviously._

Omi fucks into him faster, stronger, coring Atsumu’s lax form on his cock with intent. 

"You’re close,” he whispers, hearing Atsumu’s breaths go shallow and short and feeling his ass clench around him. 

"Maybe.” Whatever scraps of self-preservation Atsumu could have possibly hoped to cling to are shredding to bits, just like they always do. 

Omi noses into the side of his face, licks along the shell of his ear, and drags his nose in a wet trail down the muscle of Atsumu’s neck. He pulls back on Atsumu's hair once more, biting down into his shoulder before Atsumu comes with a shutter, dragging Omi with him. 

They stay straining and still as they come down from the high, their pants drowning out the sound of cars below their window. Omi pulls out and tosses himself to the side, limbs still twitching in the aftershocks. 

Atsumu’s lower back finally falls limp against the damp sheets, his core aching from the stiffness. 

"So,” he turns his neck to look at Omi, who has one eye cracked open, "worth missin’ yer show?” 

"Even better,” he says, nudging his cheek into the sheets. "There’s reruns all night tonight.” 

"Ya can’t possibly be thinkin’ about sleeping on the couch, yer back will be killin’ ya! Then you’ll be killin’ me.”

"You’ll be there to make sure I sleep right.” He states, knowing its truth. Omi waves his hand towards the bathroom, "Start the shower. If you get the stool I’ll wash your hair.” 

"Mhm, yeah.” Atsumu crawls off the bed, the wet sheet peeling off his back as he does. 

He stumbles into the bathroom, and pulls the knob of the shower, turning it to the just-a-little-too-hot setting Omi likes best.

Omi makes good on his promise to wash Atsumu’s hair, enjoying the few minutes he sits and hums songs Omi only semi-remembers the words to. 

Atsumu does let Omi curl up on his chest, situated so that his back won’t get stiff, while The Price is Right plays faintly in the background. He doesn’t even turn it off when Omi starts snoring. 

July ends much like it began: a storm giving way to a fleeting and precious moment of cool, peaceful calm.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and love these idiots, come hang out on twitter (where I usually am) @honeybakedgrace !!


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